


(extra)ordinary

by Fiorrella



Category: Love Live! School Idol Project, Love Live! Sunshine!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Music, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorrella/pseuds/Fiorrella
Summary: “Then why do you do it?” Ruby prods curiously. She tilts her head, as if Yoshiko’s mind is a maths problem she’s struggling to figure out. “If it isn’t fun and doesn’t make you happy, then why do you do it?”Yoshiko mulls over her answer for a moment. She isn't sure of it herself; catching the train to school and then coming back from it -- it’s become such a repeated action that it's practically muscle memory at this point. “It’s kind of silly, isn’t it?” she says finally. “I’ve been wanting to become a violinist ever since I can remember. I’ve already come this far -- I’m inmusic school. I can’t just…” She trails off.“Give up?” Ruby guesses and her eyes narrow in worry.Yoshiko sighs and takes another sip from her mug. Her legs idly kick back and forth under the table. “Yeah.”Or the story in which Yoshiko weaves happiness back into the strings of her violin with the help of the redheaded pianist at her local, dingy subway station.





	(extra)ordinary

Whenever Yoshiko tells someone that she’s planning on becoming a musician, they usually laugh at her. It’s not on purpose; it’s never on purpose. Yoshiko understands why they laugh though, because the first thing that comes to mind whenever even she says ‘violinist’ is someone beautiful, empathic, refined, and well and truly in touch with their emotions.

Yoshiko? Well, Yoshiko’s a self-proclaimed _disaster._ She mixes up her left and right shoe almost every day; she’s snapped her violin strings - even the _G_ one - more times than she can count; she almost failed her high school maths exam on suspicion of having cheated, and her mouth opening an inch seems to irritate every human being in existence. If you’re going to name people who you feel fit under the criteria of a violinist, Yoshiko would certainly not be one of them.

She likes to think she tries though. She’s against the whole world, but she does try.

So it’s a shame that her violin seems to hate her just as much as everyone else does.

“No, no, _no!”_ Her violin teacher clicks her tongue and crosses the room, pointing a long, bony finger accusatorily at Yoshiko. “What are you doing, sawing your bow across the poor thing like that?! Your violin has feelings, you know! Learn to cooperate with it!”

 _‘Feelings?’_ Yoshiko thinks to herself bitterly, glaring at her violin. _‘What about_ my _feelings, huh?’_

“Where should I start from?” she asks instead.

The teacher grunts and flips through the copy in her hand. “Let’s see… Start from bar forty-five.”

Yoshiko holds back a sigh and lifts her bow back up.

Her days are a continuous repeat of this -- Yoshiko going to her music school, typically getting told off for not being flowery enough or whatever other nonsense the teachers like to conjure up. She’s sure they all look forward to her lessons so that they can blow off some steam.

“Why do you want to be a musician?” Ruby asks her one day. They’re sitting in a quaint little café, drinking hot chocolate in a comfortable silence. (she’s glad that ruby has just as much of a sweet tooth as she has because if mari found out that the only thing she ever drinks is hot chocolate she’d hear no end to it.)

Yoshiko starts at the sudden interruption, blinking away her daydreams. “Huh?” she says dumbly, abruptly lifting her chin off her palm. Once she was ‘in the zone’, it was difficult to get herself to come back out.

Ruby flinches too. She quickly looks down at her lap. “Sorry, was that too personal?” she asks, nursing her mug.

Yoshiko carefully watches her for a moment before turning back around to stare back out through the window. She's extra cautious about hurting Ruby’s feelings at all times; the girl has always been the type to never express her pain. “Nah, it’s fine,” she says, physically waving Ruby off with her hands. “Just a little surprised, is all. Why do you want to know?”

“Oh,” Ruby says on an exhale of relief. “It’s just…” She squints at Yoshiko. “You always look really drained and tired.” Her eyes fall on Yoshiko’s violin case propped on the side. “Especially after music school,” she adds.

Ruby has also always been the type to be perceptive as _hell. ‘Looks are misleading,’_ she thinks to herself as she observes the petite girl in front of her. “It’s not very fun,” Yoshiko agrees out loud, taking a half-hearted sip of hot chocolate.

“Then why do you do it?” Ruby prods curiously. She tilts her head, as if Yoshiko’s mind is a maths problem she’s struggling to figure out. “If it isn’t fun and doesn’t make you happy, then why do you do it?”

Yoshiko mulls over her answer for a moment. She isn't sure of it herself; catching the train going to school and coming back from it -- it’s become such a repeated action that it's practically muscle memory at this point. “It’s kind of silly, isn’t it?” she says finally. “I’ve been wanting to become a violinist ever since I can remember. I’ve already come this far -- I’m in _music school._ I can’t just…” She trails off.

“Give up?” Ruby guesses and her eyes narrow in worry.

Yoshiko sighs and takes another sip from her mug. Her legs idly kick back and forth under the table. “Yeah.”

A pause, then, “What was playing the violin like before music school, Yoshiko-chan?” Ruby sits forward in her seat and Yoshiko wonders just how much of her mind Ruby has already navigated her way through already.

“Fun,” Yoshiko says nonetheless. She turns her gaze to Ruby and Ruby meets her eyes -- hesitant, but determined. “Satisfying,” she describes. She closes her eyes, trying to summon back that wonderful feeling from so long ago. “Vibrant, colourful. It made me feel like I was creating my own world, y’know?

Ruby’s eyes widen as if Yoshiko’s just told her a great tale. “That sounds cool,” she says enthusiastically.

“It was!” Yoshiko grins at the memory, but it fades away almost as quickly as it appears. “But now it’s just kind of flat and dull and grey.” Describing how her playing  _now_ was far easier. “There’s no substance to it."

Ruby winces sympathetically, her eyes soft with concern, but she remains silent. They fall back into a comfortable quiet, filled only with the gentle hum of the customers around them.

“I wish I could help you get back your old music,” Ruby says suddenly, breaking the silence after a few minutes. Her eyes are downcast and she’s running a finger along the rim of her cup, pensive.

Yoshiko stares back out of the window, watching the murky colours of the passing winter coats outside blur into one. “Yeah. Me too.”

* * *

The first time she sees the pianist is on the way to school. Or, more precisely, in the subway station -- she doesn’t know how to drive and the transport is thankfully free. A piano has always been set up there - it’s a pretty little thing, with its Baroque structure and creamy white skin - but nobody’s ever dared touch it as far as she knows.

So when Yoshiko hurries into the subway station and hears the familiar twinkling of piano music, she’s understandably _very_ confused.

She only realises she’s come to standstill when the person behind her tuts and makes to shove past her.

“Oh crap, s-sorry!” she stutters, hastily moving out of the way of the streaming path of people. Her gaze wanders over to the direction of where the piano is usually sat. It’s nearly invisible, a growing crowd of people having gathered around it already.

The music isn’t something she immediately recognises, even as a practising violinist, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whoever’s playing it is talented _._ The notes weave in and out of each other seamlessly and move with a certain subtility and degree of emotion that would be straight up impossible for one to replicate without a substantial amount of aptitude and flair.

The name of the tune finally clicks in and Yoshiko’s mouth drops open. _‘Gavotte?’_ she realises, aghast. _‘Bach’s Gavotte?! Isn’t that piece basically_ made _for only the harpsichord?’_ That’s the last thing you’d play at a subway station! You’d think the pianist would choose to play something better recognised... She shakes her head.

“Excuse me,” Yoshiko finds herself saying as she pushes through into the crowd, quivering on the tips of her toes as she stretches to get an eyeful of this mysterious piano player.

The piano player - a young girl seemingly her age - is beautiful. That’s the first thing that Yoshiko notices and she isn’t surprised at all, because successful and talented musicians are _always_ beautiful. The girl is almost ethereal to look at with her pearly white dress draping over her arms, swishing ever so slightly as the girl sways with the momentum of her music. Her wine red hair makes a stark contrast against the dull winter coats of the crowd around her. All of a sudden, Yoshiko feels rather self conscious of her slightly greasy face and eye bags.

The feeling faces away with the remains of the music though, and the standing ovation all around is the only thing that alerts her to the end of _Gavotte._ The girl turns around for the first time, her face flushed with exhilaration (or possibly embarrassment). Yoshiko hastily falls back down onto the balls of her feet, not wanting to make eye contact. She sees people try and shove notes into the girl’s face, but she hurriedly waves them away.

Yoshiko’s eyes fall onto the subway clock and she swears in horror. “I’m going to be late!” she hisses to herself. She adjusts her scarf and scuttles away, all thoughts of the piano girl and _Gavotte_ evaporating way.

She reaches her school fifteen minutes late. Her teacher’s waiting there for her in her practice room, tutting and tapping her right foot with folded arms.

“You’re late,” she says with a scowl.

“Sorry,” Yoshiko lies, and the teacher sighs and simply orders her to get her violin ready. She thinks back to the performance at the subway station and wonders if, just this once, it was worth it.

* * *

‘The piano girl’, as Yoshiko officially dubs her, is playing once again as she returns from school.

“Moonlight Sonata,” Yoshiko says out loud, instantly recognising the sombre tone. It seems as if the piano girl’s going for a more classic piece this time.

There aren’t as many people gathered around the piano as there were in the morning; Yoshiko guesses it’s either because people are either rushing to get home or that they’re simply turned away from the melancholic mood of the music. She frowns, wondering if she could spare some minutes to sit and listen to the piano for a while. It _has_ been a while since she’s listened to some good live music after all. But on the other hand, she has things to do when she gets home as well, such as--

\--playing the violin. She deflates.

Mind made up, Yoshiko squeezes herself onto the end of one of the subway seats, arms wrapped around her violin case. She rests her chin on it and lets out a tired sigh, allowing her eyes to flutter shut.

She isn’t even aware that she'd dozed off until she feels a timid nudge against her shoulder. Yoshiko lifts her chin and rubs her groggy eyes, sleepily prying them open. She licks her lips and wrinkles her nose disgruntledly. Her breath stank _._

“Um,” someone in front of her begins, and Yoshiko looks up. A blurry image of the piano girl stands right in front of her. “You fell asleep,” she says uncertainly, brushing back a strand of red hair behind her ears.

Yoshiko blinks up at her. The photo refocuses, and all of her senses slot into place. It’s disorientating. She presses a hand to her forehead. “Uh?” she asks smartly.

The piano girl looks almost as if she’s holding back a laugh. Or tears. Yoshiko’s too disoriented to tell. “You fell asleep,” she repeats. “I”--the piano girl pauses, thinking over her words--“I thought I should wake you up.” She bites her lip. “You looked a little out of it.”

Yoshiko stifles a yawn. She _felt_ a little out of it. “Thanks,” she says awkwardly. She pats her pockets, searching, and eventually pulls out her phone. She looks at the screen - not without a whine in protest and its sudden brightness as it loads up - and immediately groans at it. Of course it’s out of battery. “Um,” she begins haltingly, “what’s the time?”

The piano girl looks up and Yoshiko only realises then with a flush of embarrassment that _duh, there’s a subway clock_. “It’s around ten past five,” the piano girl says nonetheless.

Yoshiko squints at her in surprise. “You were playing for an _hour?”_ The question slips out in her disbelief without her meaning it to. She clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes bulging out of her head. ‘ _Oops_.’

The piano girl’s mouth curls up bashfully. “Yes,” she says with a stiff nod. She flinches suddenly and she hastily bows her head. “T-thank you very much for listening!” She raises her head. She’s as red as a tomato. Yoshiko tries not to stare and decides not to mention that she passed out halfway through the first song..

“I-it’s okay,” she says, cursing herself for the stammer. “You play… nicely.” She could say a lot more; she could tell her that she’s virtually a musical genius, and that there’s a damn good reason as to why so many people gather around her. But for someone who shines and glimmers so confidently and brightly, there’s sure to have been many who repeated her exact same words, so Yoshiko holds her tongue.

The piano girl opens her mouth and closes it, her expression unreadable. She finally smiles, a small, shy little quirk of the lips. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Yoshiko says more than a little awkwardly. She stumbles to her feet and swings her violin case onto her back, swaying a little at the sudden weight. “So, uh, bye then?” she asks, shifting her weight back and forth.

The piano girl looks up and flashes another small smile, and Yoshiko wonders how everything she does can be so _effortless_. “See you later,” she says with a wave.

Yoshiko returns the wave hesitantly before spinning back around, her face on fire. She speed walks out of the subway station and almost trips over her laces while she’s at it _(when had they come undone?)_. She crosses her fingers in hopes that nobody saw, before waddling off in the direction of her apartment.

* * *

Yoshiko soon realises that the piano girl doesn’t show up every day. She doesn’t show up on certain days, either. From an outsider’s view, it looks like the piano girl only sits down to play whenever and wherever she wants to play. Yoshiko knows she’s probably just busy on the days she doesn’t turn up, but she likes the other girl’s spontaneous schedule. It makes her listeners stay on their toes and truly value the playing instead of taking it for granted. Such good music doesn’t deserve that treatment, she thinks.

She boards her train that Monday morning bleary-eyed, half asleep and smelling of overcooked curry. People give her a wide berth. She’s not surprised; she must be a sight to see with her bed hair, rimmed eyes and stained shirt.

Her playing that day is downright awful and she’s not surprised about that, either. Her bow squeaks harshly all over the strings, her position changes are sloppy and clumsy, and her vibrato can barely be heard. Good performances are becoming rarer and rare, and bad performances are becoming far too frequent for her liking.

It’s frustrating. She’d hurl her violin across the room if it didn’t cost a fortune.

“Tsushima-san,” her teacher says a little while later, tapping the music stand and breaking her out of her teeth-grinding stupor.

Yoshiko blinks at her. It isn’t a common occurrence to hear teachers directly address her by their name. She reaches for her rosin. “Yes?”

“Have you ever considered playing in an ensemble?” she asks.

Yoshiko scowls immediately. “No,” she says curtly, slathering the rosin over the length of her bow. She hates it, absolutely _hates_ it, when teaches hint to her that playing with others would be beneficial. She doesn’t want other people -- she wants her music to sound good without needing the talent of those around her, and she doesn't understand how the teachers can't possibly see that. She grits her teeth, pressing the rosin harshly against the hairs.

Her teacher evidently doesn't get the hint. “I feel like playing others will give your music more... energy,” she continues cautiously. “Have you considered joining our orchestra?”

Yoshiko’s eye twitches. She’s had this conversation so many times - _too_ many times - and it never fails to irritate her. Every time it happens, it’s yet another reminder that her music isn’t good enough to be played by itself. “I don’t need other people to make my music good,” she snaps.

The teacher studies for a while. Her eyes narrow and she tucks her chin in, relenting. “Very well,” she says decidedly, “but give it some thought.”

Yoshiko slams on the lid of her rosin and shoves it back into her violin case without a reply.

 

The piano girl is there on the train back, sitting daintily on the cushioned piano stool. Yoshiko hovers for a little bit before shrugging and nudging her way into the crowd. As usual, she has time to kill.

The piano girl’s playing _Claire de Lune_ \-- one of Yoshiko’s favourites. While she would normally be content to simply sit down and appreciate the music, she doesn’t do that this time. She observes. She watches the way the girl’s slim fingers dance and slide up and down the ivory keys, seamlessly moving between the black notes despite the shortened structure of the Baroque piano. She takes notes on how the girl effortlessly lifts her toes on and off the sustaining pedal, heel not moving even an inch. She looks at how the girl sways with the elastic beat of the music and sees how effortless it all is -- how effortless _she_ is. Playing the piano isn’t even second nature to the girl -- it’s part of her.

 _‘This is it,’_ Yoshiko thinks to herself glumly. _‘This is the line between the ordinary and the extraordinary.’_

She stays until the end of the song. People applaud (as usual) and the piano girl remains seated, a smile and a matching blush decorating her face. Her eyes flick over to meet Yoshiko’s. Yoshiko starts, and the girl blinks in recognition. She offers a small wave. Yoshiko waves back, a little bewildered. The applause dies down and the piano girl quickly looks away, flipping through her music sheets for the next song.

Yoshiko takes the opportunity to slink away, violin case heavy against her back.

* * *

The next morning, the piano girl approaches Yoshiko. She almost has a heart attack when she feels someone tap her on the shoulder and whirls around to come face to face with her. Her hair is up in a ponytail, but Yoshiko recognises her clear as day; that vivid, red hair of hers is unmistakable.

“Hi,” the piano girl says with a bright smile. Yoshiko stares at her and the girl shifts on her feet, uneasy. “Do you remember me?” she asks, her voice shaking a little.

 _‘Why aren’t you playing today?’_ Yoshiko wants to ask instead, but she holds her tongue and nods her head mutely instead, wondering just what exactly the girl wanted with her.

“Ah, that’s good,” the girl says, a little too chipper as she threads her fingers together. She twiddles her thumbs for a moment before asking, “You play the violin, right?”

“Y-yeah.” Yoshiko’s eyebrows furrow. She didn’t know the girl had taken note of her violin case; she was more observant than she’d taken her for. “Why?” she asks, slightly suspicious.

The piano girl runs a nervous hand over the crown of her hair. “I was wondering if you’d like to play together,” she blurts out, and Yoshiko’s eyes almost bulge out of her head. That was the last thing she was expecting to come out of her mouth.

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to or anything,” the piano girl continues. “I just thought it’d be fun.” She waves her hands hastily. “I’m not forcing you to…” She trails off, looking a little hopeless.

Yoshiko looks at her. She _properly_ looks at her. “Why me?” she questions at last, but the better question would probably just be _‘why?’_ , because a pianist as excellent as her doesn’t need others to make her music shine. _‘Unlike you,’_ she mentally tacks on.

The piano girl tilts her head, as if she herself is trying to think of the answer. “I like playing with other musicians,” she says eventually, “and I’ve talked to you before. You seemed…” The girl trails off and she chews the inside of her cheek. “...nice enough,” she finishes.

 _‘Gee, thanks!’_ “You were waking me up,” Yoshiko points out verbally, unable to hold herself in.

The girl deflates a little, letting out a dry, slightly anxious laugh. “That’s true,” she agrees wryly. Her eyes flicker up to meet Yoshiko’s. “I suppose that that’s a no, then?”

Yoshiko studies her for a moment, her brain whirring. She still doesn't understand _why;_ wouldn’t accompanying someone just hold herself back? “Why do you like playing with other people?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “What’s the point? You can play by yourself fine and you know that.”

The piano girl blinks, her eyebrows knotting together. She meets Yoshiko’s eyes. “It’s fun,” she says simply. She hesitates. Yoshiko doesn’t speak and she supposes the girl takes that as her cue to carry on. “Playing with other musicians -- it’s fun. I-- I don’t know how to describe it, but,” she says with a pause, gathering her words together, “it feels really good.” The girl breathes out. “It’s fun,” she repeats.

Yoshiko’s breath catches in her throat. _It’s fun._ Her jaw tightens and her mouth opens, free of her own will. “Then will it,” she blurts out desperately, “will it make my music fun too?”

The girl’s mouth forms a perfect, round ‘o’. A brief look of understanding washes over her face, and Yoshiko wonders if, despite her appearance, she’s experienced the struggle of being an expressionless musician too. “I can’t promise it,” she says quietly, “but there’s a chance.”

Yoshiko thinks back to the time she talked to Ruby. _‘It’s just kind of flat and dull and grey,’_ she remembers telling her. _‘There’s no substance to it.’_ She bites her lip.

 _‘There’s a line between the ordinary and the extraordinary,’_ a small part of her warns.

Yoshiko takes a deep, shuddering breath and squeezes her eyes shut, silencing all her mental thoughts. “I’ll do it,” she hears herself state on the exhale.

The piano girl’s eyes widen. She almost drops her bag right there on the spot. _“Really?”_ she asks, astounded.

“Yeah,” Yoshiko affirms with a nod. “But I have”--she bites down on her tongue--“to go somewhere today.” She inwardly slaps herself. Allowing herself to play with someone so talented is one thing, but admitting to them she goes to music school is another; _especially_ when her playing is so mediocre.

“Ah.” The piano girl lets out a soft sound of realisation and touches her fingers together. “Of course. Will you be busy for the whole day?”

Yoshiko shakes her head. “I’ll be back at around four, I think,” she says. “As long as the train isn’t delayed or anything, of course.”

The piano girl nods. Her eyes wander up as she seemingly thinks her own day through. “I’ll wait for you here, then?” she proposes at last.

Yoshiko’s jaw drops. “Wait, wait, wait,” she says incredulously, “we’re doing it _today?”_

The piano girl pauses. “Well, I was hoping to,” she says awkwardly, her face slightly red. She brushes her hair back and leans forward on her toes a little. “But if you’re too busy or you want to do it another day, that’s fine.”

Yoshiko hurriedly waves her off. “N-no-- no, that’s fine. I just wanted to…” She trails off. _‘prepare myself,’_ she mentally finishes. “You can meet me here like you said,” she says instead.

The girl sighs in relief. She reaches into her shoulder bag and brings out her phone. “Sorry, can I ask for your number? If that’s okay with you.”

“Y-yeah, sure.” Yoshiko hastily yanks out her phone from her pocket and scrolls through her documents for the one containing her number. She’d never been bothered to try remembering it. “My name’s Yoshiko, by the way,” she adds as she shows the girl her screen. “Yoshiko Tsushima.”

The piano girl pockets her phone. “I’m Riko Sakurauchi,” she says, zipping her bag up. She smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Tsushima-san.”

Yoshiko frowns at her formalities. “Just Yoshiko is fine,” she corrects. “We’re gonna be working together now, right? You don't need to call me that.”

Riko nods. “Then just Riko is fine for me, too.”

“Okay.”

Their conversation diminuendos into an uncomfortable silence. Yoshiko looks away and clears her throat, tightening her hold on her violin case. “My train’s gonna come soon, so I’ve gotta go.” She gestures towards the end of the subway station. “So, uh,” she says awkwardly, “bye then?”

Riko smiles, letting out a little _huff_ from her nose. Yoshiko gives her a bemused look. “W-what?”

Riko shakes her head. “No, it’s nothing.” She begins unwinding a pair of headphones from her coat pocket. “See you later, Yoshiko-san.”

“Yeah,” Yoshiko raises a hand and begins jogging backwards, almost tripping over her laces in the process. “See you, Riko-san!” she shouts over the crowd. She manages to see Riko wave back before she’s engulfed by the people swarming around her.

Yoshiko sighs - a sigh she hadn’t been aware she was even holding in - and turns back around to face the escalators. She isn’t sure if she’s more excited or nervous to wait for school to finish.

* * *

True to her word, Riko is standing near the escalators of the subway station when Yoshiko finishes up her work at school.

“Yoshiko-san,” she says, waving, and Yoshiko flinches, turning red a little. She’d spent the whole train ride giving a pep talk to herself, but she's  _still_ a bag of nerves just waiting to explode.

“H-hello,” she manages to stammer out in greeting. She bows her head.

Riko blinks at the gesture but doesn’t question it. “How was your day?”

“It was okay,” Yoshiko lies. She’d spent the day torturing her brains out with theory work and, needless to say, that had _not_ been okay, but Riko doesn't need to know that. She pauses, looking around at the groups of people swarming around the station. How Riko worked up the courage to play regularly in front of them all was a mystery to her. “Are we going to play in front of everyone?” she questions nervously.

Riko does her little amused nose huff thing again. “No,” she says, and Yoshiko lets out a sigh of relief. She frowns at Yoshiko. “Unless _you_ want to?”

Yoshiko immediately grimaces. Not to be dramatic, but she’d rather _die_ than have to play in front of all these people. “Please, no,” she begs weakly.

Riko gives her a perplexed half-smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll only do that if you’re comfortable with it,” she says nonetheless. She perks up all of a sudden. “Oh, by the way: thank you for accepting my offer.” She intertwines her hands gratefully. “Most people would refuse it.”

Yoshiko shakes her head. “It’s fine.” She glances at Riko, studying her. “Did you really only want to do it because it’s _fun?”_ she asks suspiciously.

Riko raises her eyebrows. “Well,” she says pensively, “I do like the sound of the violin in general. It compliments the piano well, doesn’t it?”

 _‘Not when_ I’m _playing it,’_ Yoshiko thinks to herself wryly. “I’m… not very good at it,” she confesses, and Riko tilts her head questioningly.  “The violin, I mean,” she elaborates.

“You’re probably better at it than you think,” Riko tells her.

“No,” Yoshiko says, struggling to keep the frustration out of her words, “as in, my playing is basically at a beginner level.”

Riko gives her a dubious look. “You carry that violin around with you every single day and you’re a beginner?” she asks sceptically.

 _‘You’ve seen me_ _every day?'_ Yoshiko wants to ask. “The sound is all _wrong,”_ she spits out loud, a little more aggressively than she intended. She scuffs the heel of her trainers on the ground. “I--I’ll do it, but I’m just telling you not to get your hopes up too high,” she says, “because I’m probably not as good as you think I am.” Riko’s brow creases. She opens her mouth to speak but Yoshiko cuts her off with a sigh. “You’ll see when I play.”

Riko looks at her curiously but leaves it at that. “Oh,” she says suddenly, “I forgot to ask you before, but is it-- is it okay if we go to my apartment?” She steeples her hands hopefully. “I… know it’s a little sudden, but I have a piano there.”

“Sure,” Yoshiko says, glad to change the subject. “It’s not as if you’re going to murder me there or anything.” Riko hums contemplatively under her breath. She turns on her heels, beginning to walk and Yoshiko wordlessly follows her.

“Maybe I am?” she suggests after a while, a little too seriously for Yoshiko’s tastes.

Yoshiko stops in her tracks, scrunching her face up. Was that a _joke?_ Riko slows down with her and gives her an amused glance. “That was a joke,” she says.

“I know,” Yoshiko says with a scowl. “But you’re really bad at telling jokes, you know that?”

“People tell me that a lot,” she muses. People file up behind them and Riko hastily tugs at her sleeve, indicating to her that they’re blocking the way.

Yoshiko throws a glance behind her and grudgingly starts walking again. “Well, they’re probably right then,” Yoshiko points out accusatorily.

Riko begins to laugh. It’s a little breathless and Yoshiko jumps out of her skin at the sound - she genuinely can’t remember the last time she got someone to laugh - but it’s a nice, peaceful sound. Yoshiko relaxes into it, allowing herself to smile as well.

* * *

 “Your apartment is pretty cool,” is what Yoshiko comments on as she steps through the doorway. It’s fairly spacious and big, with creamy white walls and a clean, oak floor. The sun filters through into the interior nicely, and the amount of furniture used is just sparse enough to be labelled as minimalist. It’s a pleasant change from Yoshiko’s dusty apartment -- she still has days old plates piled up in her sink.

“Thanks.” Riko smiles and tucks her flats away. She straightens and brushes her hair back behind her ear. “Would you like a drink?”

Yoshiko struggles out of her left shoe, taking care not to step off the carpet. “I’m good, thanks,” she says. She holds up her shoes with a hand and asks, “Should I just keep them with yours?”

Riko twists her head around to check. “Yeah, that’ll be fine.” She points through to the doorway on the left. “You can just go through here,” she says. “Sorry, I’ll be there in a second.” Before Yoshiko has the chance to open her mouth, she disappears into what Yoshiko presumes is the kitchen.

Yoshiko stares after her for a moment before shrugging and padding into the pointed out room. Similar to the hallway, the walls are a plain white, and aside from the black grand piano sitting smack bang in the center of the room, the loveseat in the corner, and the towering bookcase, it’s fairly devoid of decoration.

 _‘Wow,’_ Yoshiko thinks to herself as she ogles the piano. _‘I’ve never looked at one this close, but they really_ are _pretty.’_

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Yoshiko jumps as Riko emerges from the kitchen, a small tray in her hands. “It’s my pride and joy,” Riko says fondly. “I had to save up for years and this _is_ meant to be the living room, but I think it’s worth it.” She chuckles and hands Yoshiko a glass of water.

Yoshiko stares into the liquid. “I thought I said I didn’t want a drink?” she asks.

“You can keep it on the table if you don’t want it,” Riko says. She looks up thoughtfully. “Ah, you’ll need a music stand, won’t you?” she mumbles to herself, scanning the room.

Yoshiko takes a sip from the water and places it on the table as discreetly as possible. “I’ll get my stuff out,” she tells Riko.

Riko flinches at that. “Sorry,” She apologises sheepishly, running a hand through her ponytail. “I should’ve prepared before you--”

“It’s fine,” Yoshiko interrupts dismissively. Riko wavers for a moment before nodding and disappearing yet again from the room. Yoshiko swings the violin case off her back and busies herself with setting it up. She eases the shoulder rest on and stumbles to her feet, resting her bow against the width of her strings. It feels heavy, ssluggish.

 _‘This is wrong,’_ she thinks, but she quickly shoves the feeling back down. She swallows and tightens her grip on the bow’s handle, positioning the tip over the G and D strings.

“I found it!” Yoshiko jumps, her jaw knocking into the chin rest as Riko bursts into the room, wielding a silver music stand and a couple of papers. Riko sets the stand down in front of her and carefully balances the sheets on it. “Can you sight read?” she asks as she moves the page holders out of the way.

“More or less,” Yoshiko says, her voice cracking.

Riko hums under her breath. “Okay, then we can--” She halts, catching herself. A look of realisation passes over her face. “Oh, you need to tune your violin, right?” she asks. “Do you want me to play the notes on the piano?”

Yoshiko quickly shakes her head. “No, I can do it myself.”

“Then I’ll just”--she gestures at the bookcase--”be looking for the piano parts while you warm up, okay?” Yoshiko’s heart drops.

“Okay,” she says even though there’s nothing else she wants to say at that moment except for _‘please get out of the room’,_ because there’s no way in _hell_ she’ll be able to muster up the courage to warm up in front of a musician as amazing as Riko. She lets out a shaky breath and repositions her bow over the strings. _‘Suck it up, Yoshiko.’_ The violin trembles under her grip and she grits her teeth, frustrated. She lets down her bow and opens her mouth.

Riko picks up on her tension before Yoshiko can even say anything. “What’s wrong?” she asks, popping her head up to look at her.

Yoshiko stares down resolutely at the bridge of her violin, refusing to meet the other girl’s gaze. She lowers the instrument. She doesn’t know what to say either. “Sorry,” she rasps out, her voice barely audible.

Riko has crossed the room by then. She hovers around Yoshiko, uncertain, but to her relief, doesn’t step any closer. “You don’t have to play,” Riko says, her face pinched in concern. “I’m not going to force you to.”

Yoshiko almost laughs in her disbelief. “You invited me here,” she states, “so that we could play together.”

“I did.” Riko’s eyes flicker down to the violin, then back up to her. “But I”--she hesitates for the first time, but sets her jaw and dives back into the flow--”I’m not going to force you to do something that’ll overwhelm you.”

She’s sure Riko doesn’t mean to hurt her (how _could_ she, with her stupidly worried, round eyes?) but the words sting more than she’d care to admit. “What sort of musician gets overwhelmed by _music?”_ she asks incredulously, tone brittle.

Riko purses her lips. Yoshiko can tell she’s dying to say something by the way her mouth twitches, but she keeps it to herself for whatever reason (yoshiko prays that it isn’t pity -- that would make the situation even more pathetic). “Let’s take a break,” she says instead. Her voice is soft and it’s probably the only thing that convinces Yoshiko to nod and put her violin down without a word.

“Sorry,” she repeats as she pulls the shoulder rest off and tucks it next to the neck of her violin.

Riko hands her the violin blanket. “You don't have to apologise.” She watches Yoshiko spread the velvet over the instrument and hesitates before asking, “Since you’re here already, would you like to hear me play?”

“Huh?” Yoshiko looks up at her, blinking. “Is that fine?” she asks as she tugs the case’s zip shut.

Riko nods in confirmation, a small, comforting smile playing on her lips. She walks over to the piano, taking a seat on the stool. Her hands hover over the keys. She pauses, then looks over to Yoshiko. “Is there anything you want me to play?”

Yoshiko stands up and brushes the remains of rosin off her jeans. She frowns, wracking her brain for a suitable song. “A… Maiden’s Prayer?” she suggests hesitantly, crossing the room to the little sofa. Riko’s eyebrows shoot up in recognition. “Do you know it?”

“Of course,” Riko says almost indignantly as she moves the seated papers off the music rack. “It’s a beautiful song,” she adds as an afterthought.

Yoshiko sighs and rests her head against the back of the loveseat. “It is.” She feels Riko’s questioning eyes trained on her but she ignores them, not particularly in the mood to explain her music choices. Thankfully, Riko averts her eyes - she didn't seem to be one to pry, at least - and after a few beats, launches into the familiar opening of _A Maiden’s Prayer._

Yoshiko sinks further back into the plush material of the loveseat, absorbing herself in the warm melody. Riko’s fingers are light but steady against the keys. She makes the music come alive; she makes it dance, with all the delicate footing and flair a proper dancer should have. Her body sinks its momentum into the tempo, shoulders pushing forward with every beat. There isn't a single part of her - hell, even the performance - that stays still.

 _‘This is it,’_ Yoshiko thinks to herself as she watches Riko’s fingers glide across ivory. _‘This is what a_ true _musician should be like.’_

She knows the ending’s coming before Riko even has a chance to play it. “Was that alright?” Riko asks after the sustained notes fade away. There's a twinge of nervousness in her voice.

Yoshiko exhales, savouring the memory of the melody. “Yeah,” she says simply after a beat. She sits up, crossing her legs underneath her as she begins to pat down her dishevelled hair. “How do you do that?” she asks with mild curiosity.

Riko removes her fingers from the keys and stares at Yoshiko. “How do I do what?” she asks, confused.

“How do you have so much”--she wrinkles her nose--” _character_ in your music?” _‘How can_ I _play like that?’_ she wants to ask as well.

Riko ponders over her answer for a moment. “That’s an easy effect to achieve when you genuinely like your music,” she says eventually, her words careful and deliberate. She runs her hands over the keys. “I just pour my heart into it.”

Yoshiko makes a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat. That wasn't the answer she was hoping for; she was wanting a more straightforward and achievable reply. “That’s easier said than done,” she points out, displeased.

Riko’s eyes narrow and she laces her fingers together. Her skirt folds over as she turns around on the stool to face Yoshiko’s direction. “I know,” she promises firmly. “But you’ll get there.”

“Thanks,” is what Yoshiko says, a little lamely, because she truthfully doesn't know what else to say (and she bites back a harsh “you don’t know that” because that would probably hurt both riko’s and her own feelings and that's the last thing she wants to do).

Riko cocks her head thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow?” she asks, tone tentative. Yoshiko blinks at her. “We can maybe work on this…” She frowns and trails off as she decides on how to summarise Yoshiko’s situation. “This problem of yours,” she finishes.

“I can come here at the same time as today,” Yoshiko tells her, “but aren't _you_ busy tomorrow?” She briefly sizes up Riko; with her smart posture and pretty face, she looks every bit the part of a diligent worker or student.

Riko shakes her head. “The only thing I planned to do tomorrow was to play in the subway station again,” she says matter-of-factly, as if sitting down at a piano in public and playing was a normal pastime, “and I can just do that in the morning.”

Yoshiko’s eyebrows shoot up. _“Seriously?”_ she questions incredulously. Does this girl honestly do _anything_ that doesn't involve the piano? “What do you even do for a living?”

“I don’t,” Riko answers. She stands up, brushing out her skirt, and begins setting away the music stand. “My parents still insist on supporting me.” She pauses, tilting her head before tacking on a, “But I am still a student, after all.”

Yoshiko’s face contorts in disbelief. _‘A student?!’_ “Wait a minute,” she stutters, pointing a shaky finger in the other girl's direction, “just how old _are_ you?”

Riko folds over the music stand. “Twenty,” she huffs out as she staggers back onto her feet, stand in hand.

Yoshiko’s jaw drops open. Well, colour her surprised; she’d assumed Riko was twenty-three at the very least. “You’re only a _year_ older than me?!” she demands.

Riko looks at her questioningly. “Yes...?” she says, oblivious. She rests the stand against the floorboards and her brow furrows in confusion, realisation setting in. “Wait, Yoshiko-san, how old are _you?”_

“Nineteen,” Yoshiko mutters, staring down at her feet. She hears Riko hum in surprised awe and huffs, mildly amused. “Is that really so amazing to you?” she asks.

“I thought you were my age,” Riko muses, tapping her chin, “or maybe older than me, I couldn’t tell.” She meets Yoshiko’s eyes and smiles demurely. “Can I just call you ‘Yoshiko-chan’ instead, then?” she asks.

Yoshiko feels her face heat up. She quickly looks away and rubs the back of her neck. “Y-you can call me whatever you want,” she mumbles out.

“Yoshiko-chan it is, then,” Riko confirms blissfully, clapping her hands together. “You don’t need to address me  with ‘-san’ then, either.”

“Then,” Yoshiko tests out, “R-Riko.” She inhales sharply and looks down. “I’ll come around tomorrow.”

Riko nods, brushing her hair back. “I’ll wait for you in the same place, then?” she says questioningly.

“You don’t have to do that,” Yoshiko hastily interrupts. She doesn't want to impose on Riko any more than she already has, what with her refusal to pick up her violin in front of her plus Riko's already generous offer of playing a song for her. “I can get here myself.”

Riko narrows her eyes doubtfully. “You memorised the route here on the first day?”

Yoshiko falters, caught. Her eye twitches as she whacks her brain for an appropriate answer. “I-I mean,” she ends up bluffing, “it’s not _that_ far away--”

“--so I’ll just come and get you,” Riko intervenes a little impatiently, tapping the music stand against the floor.

Yoshiko sags. She's not a particularly smart person (her less than average grades in _high school_ are more than enough to prove that), but she knows when to admit defeat. “Yes, ma’am,” she says with a sigh.

Riko hums, pleased with herself. Her eyes flicked over to Yoshiko’s case on the ground. “You don’t have to play your violin tomorrow,” she says. “You should still bring it though,” she adds, “just in case.”

Yoshiko grimaces. “Is that okay with you, Riko?” she asks dubiously.

“If I’m the problem here, we should focus on getting that out of the way.” Yoshiko opens her mouth to protest, but Riko ploughs on. “If you become more comfortable with me, you’ll find playing in front of me easier too,” she elaborates.

Yoshiko purses her lips. “Then what?” she challenges. “Even if I play in front of you, I can’t in front of others.”

“Baby steps,” Riko tells her, and Yoshiko thinks that’s Riko’s way of saying _‘we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’_

“It’s getting pretty late.” she continues, tilting her head towards the window. Yoshiko follows her gaze and sighs, taking in the sight of the already setting sun. “You might want to get home before it gets too dark.”

Yoshiko groans and pulls herself up, staggering over to her violin case. “That’s one thing I hate about winter,” she comments disgruntledly as she pulls the strap over her shoulder, “you can’t even stay out until _six_ before it gets so dark that you can’t even see your hands.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Riko replies, but she laughs softly nonetheless and drops to her knees to help Yoshiko gather her belongings.

It’s only when Riko’s showing her out of the door and she's attempting to put her shoes on that she wonders _why._ Why Riko - a complete stranger until today - has decided to smile upon her misfortune and extend a hand to help her. She stills, grabbing the door frame for balance.

Riko being Riko, is the one to comment on it first. “Is something wrong?” she asks, settling a gentle hand in between Yoshiko's shoulder blades.

Yoshiko twists her head around to look at her. Their eyes meet. “Why do you care so much?” she asks bluntly.

Riko pauses. Her face scrunches up as she tried to decipher Yoshiko's words. “About what?” she asks eventually.

“About my music,” Yoshiko replies without hesitation. She points to herself. “About _me.”_

Riko breathes in. She squeezes Yoshiko's shoulder and lets go, her hand falling to her side. “If you’re a musician and you’re struggling with it, I want to help,” she says. She hesitates briefly, her hand hovering over the door handle. “And I like you,” she adds.

Yoshiko flushes all the way up to her ears, almost toppling out of the doorway completely. “Y-you _do?!”_ she stammers out, dumbfounded, because she doesn't think anyone's _ever_ said that to her in her life.

Riko turns red too. She steps behind the door a little, her face peeking out from behind it like a child. “Not-- not in _that_ way!” she protests, her voice rising defensively. “I mean”--she clears her throat--”you’re a fun person,” she finishes firmly.

 _‘I am?!’_ Yoshiko wants to ask, because she can't label a single part of her that could be called ‘fun’. “W-well!” she says as grandly as possible, looking away and pointing her nose up. “Thanks.”

Riko darkens still, but she stumbles out from behind the shelter of her doorway. “You’re welcome,” she says, mortified. She dips her head a little. “Get home safely,” she wishes in a strained voice.

“Y-yeah, thanks.” Yoshiko nods stiffly. After a shared wave, the door shuts, and Yoshiko almost slips over her untied laces in her haste to get out of the apartment complex. She only slows down to a walk once she's truly out and away from the area. She lets out a sigh of relief.

“A fun person, huh,” she mumbles out loud in between pants of breath. _‘I wonder if that can pass onto my playing, too,’_ she mourns inwardly. She thinks of Riko and all of her determination, kindness and honesty, and - for just a second - entertains the idea of her dreams coming true.

Yoshiko smiles, tugging her scarf closer around her neck. Today has been a good day.

* * *

The next morning before school, Yoshiko pulls out a box of Jenga from her cabinet. She stares at it, wondering if it’s good enough of an icebreaker to bring with her. She eventually shrugs and stuffs it into her backpack anyway -- she’s never been one to think much over things in the first place.

She can hear Riko’s playing as she soon as she steps into the subway station. She hesitates, wondering if she should stop to say hi, and hovers on the outskirts of the crowd briefly before deciding to leave. The last thing she wants to do is distract her.

School whizzes by and soon Yoshiko finds herself rushing through the station and up the escalators. Like yesterday, Riko’s waiting a little way off. She has a single earbud plugged in but she spots her before Yoshiko even has a chance to shout for her attention. Her face brightens and she pulls out her earbud, lifting her hand to wave.

“Sorry I’m late!’ Yoshiko pants out as she slows down to a stop. “The train got a little delayed.” She straightens her back and wipes her forehead, heaving out a heavy sigh. “Stuff like this _always_ happens to me,” she grumbles.

Riko cocks her head inquisitively, her mouth twitching up into an amused smile as she watches Yoshiko catch her breath. “It does?” she asks mildly.

“Yeah,” Yoshiko says with a snort. “Every time, I swear. A few weeks ago a baby threw up on my shoes and I had to walk around school looking - and smelling - like vomit.” She shudders at the memory. “Everyone avoided me like the plague,” she moans, pressing the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead.

Riko manages to grimace and do her little ‘huff through the nose’ laugh at the same time. “That sounds tough,” she says with a sympathetic-but-kind-of-weirded-out smile.

Yoshiko grunts in agreement, lazily straightening up. Her backpack straps rub against her arms and she starts, perking up a little as she remembers the Jenga packed in her bag. “Oh yeah,” she says, clapping her hands together excitedly as they begin walking, “have you ever played Jenga before?”

Riko tilts her head. “No,” she says thoughtfully, pressing a finger to her chin, “but I’ve heard of it.”

“Yeah, well--” Yoshiko pauses and she fully intakes what the other girl had just said. She looks up at her, eyes wide in horror. “Wait, _what?”_

Riko looks back at her and her eyes also widen. “Is that bad?” she asks anxiously, wringing her hands.

Yoshiko snorts. “Of course it's bad! You’ve never played _Jenga_ ,” she states dryly. Riko gives her a blank look and Yoshiko rubs her temples, letting out a sigh. Has this girl ever been anywhere that _isn't_ her apartment or the subway station? “What _have_ you played?” she demands instead.

Riko’s brow furrows. “Ch...chess?” Yoshiko lets out an immediate groan.

“Of _course_ you have.” Yoshiko sighs, slumping her shoulders in defeat. “Do you know how to play Jenga, at least?” she asks, enunciating her words cautiously.

Riko has the decency to look embarrassed. “No,” she admits. “But you can teach me”--she raises her eyebrows hopefully at Yoshiko--”right?”

Yoshiko grins mischievously. “Of course,” she assures with a breezy flip of her hands. She begins chuckling to herself as they walk and Riko throws her a disquieted look, but stays otherwise silent.

This is going to be an easy win. 

* * *

 

“Why are you so good at this?!” Yoshiko snarls as the tower topples for the thirteenth time. A brick falls off the edge and, for the thirteenth time, Riko flinches almost out of her seat. (it stopped being entertaining after yoshiko realised she hadn't won a _single_ game.)

“I’m not good at it,” Riko says as she gingerly relaxes back into her straight posture. She bends down to pick up the fallen block. “Maybe you’re just bad at it?” she asks, her voice muffled from underneath the table.

Yoshiko pulls a face, her nose scrunching up. “The insolence,” she mutters to herself darkly, resting her cheeks on her hands.

Riko flips her head back up, brick successfully retrieved. Yoshiko notes with a pang of jealousy that not a single strand of hair is out of place even then. “Help me build it back up,” she says. Yoshiko obliges - but not without an over-dramatic huff - and the room delves into silence as they group the bricks into groups of three.

Yoshiko bites her lip, racking her brain for something - _anything_ \- to talk about. “Do you ever want to just throw your piano at the wall?” she asks, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

Riko gives her a strange look. “Um, no.”

“Well, I do!” Yoshiko gives in with a sigh and collapses onto the table.

“You don’t _have_ a piano,” Riko points out, gently easing a brick from underneath Yoshiko’s arm and stacking it onto the growing tower.

Yoshiko gives her the stink-eye from over the cotton of her sleeve. “You know what I mean," she insists. "Violin, piano; same thing.”

Riko's brow knits. “How?”

Yoshiko falters. “They’re both instruments?” she guesses.

Riko sighs, ultimately deciding to ignore her. “If you feel like throwing your violin against the wall, there’s probably a problem there,” she says seriously. She taps her on the hand. “Look, the tower’s all built. The loser goes first, right?”

“Don’t rub it in,” Yoshiko groans. She pulls herself onto her elbows and begins examining the tower, before smoothly pulling out one of the right bricks. She sets it down on the table with oozing pride. “Your turn,” she declares with a smirk.

Riko haltingly tries to push out one of the bottom bricks. “This game is so stressful,” she mumbles under her breath.

“Really?" Yoshiko's brow shoots up. "I just pull out… whatever looks good.”

“That’s probably why you’ve lost thirteen times in a row,” Riko observes absent-mindedly. “And as for what you said before”--she slides the brick out and sets it on the table with a relieved huff--”I do get what you mean. Playing an instrument is frustrating.”

Yoshiko pokes experimentally at one of the middle blocks. “Do you get frustrated, too?”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation.

Yoshiko wavers. She looks up from the tower, then asks with curiosity, “How do you get past that frustration?”

“I just keep working at it.” Riko’s gaze floats off to the right, where Yoshiko’s violin is propped. “...Although, it seems more complicated than that for you.”

“It’s like nothing I ever play sounds right anymore,” Yoshiko confesses. The brick wobbles under her touch.

Riko makes a sympathetic noise. “That sounds tough," she says, steepling her hands.

“‘Tough’ doesn’t even cut it,” Yoshiko grumbles. Deeming the block to be safe, she slides it out. The tower collapses. Riko flinches and Yoshiko groans, throwing herself back in her seat. _“Seriously?!”_

Riko's face melts into a small smile and she busies herself with collecting the fallen bricks into a pile. “Rematch?” she offers.

Yoshiko rests her head against the back of the chair. “No thanks,” she mumbles into her elbow. “I’m beat.”

“Just from playing Jenga?” Riko teases. Yoshiko nods mutely and Riko does her trademark slightly-amused-huff. “What do you want to do, then?”

Yoshiko perks up. “Eat?” she suggests hopefully. Looking around, the kitchen is filled with all sorts of tools and decorations; maybe it's simply Riko being Riko, but Yoshiko's eager to try some of her food either way.

Riko nods easily. “Where?” she asks, sliding the game's box over the tower. "It can't be too far from here, though, since it'll get dark soon."

“‘Where?’” Yoshiko blinks. “Wait"--her jaw drops--"you want to eat _out?!"_  She sits forward in her seat, fingers clenched around the edge of the table. _"_ Is that alright with you?”

Riko blinks back at her. “Why wouldn’t it be?” she asks, confused.

Yoshiko wonders if she’s genuinely managed to meet an angel on Earth. Not many would agree to eat out with someone, let alone _her,_ while only knowing them for barely two days. “You’re too kind,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “Thank you.”

Riko’s brow furrows. “You’re… welcome,” she says with a frown. “Where do you want to eat?”

Yoshiko grins and pulls herself up onto her elbows. “I know _just_ the place.”

* * *

Despite it being around six or so, Togakushi Ramen’s practically buzzing. People are sat in almost every available seat and their chatter opens up a low, background hum echoing through the room, like a television constantly being switched on. Bottles of beer line the bar, almost completely obscuring the faces of the chefs behind them. The warmth of the restaurant is a welcome gift to Yoshiko and she shivers gladly underneath her winter coat. Next to her, Riko is still, eyeing the bar with a bemused expression.

“Ramen,” Riko deadpans over the racket. She pushes her hands further into her coat pockets. “Wow.”

Yoshiko turns to her with chattering teeth. “Don’t you like ramen?” she asks, praying to God that Riko isn't… Riko isn't  _allergic_ or something, because that would _suck._

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Riko says, and Yoshiko lets out a sigh of relief. “It's just that it isn’t what I was… expecting.”

Yoshiko waggles her eyebrows saucily. “Oh? What were you expecting me to bring you to?”

Riko looks at her. “What?”

“Nevermind,” Yoshiko says with a sigh, rolling her eyes. She too pulls her hands out of her pockets, fastening a tight grip around Riko’s wrist. Riko flinches under her sudden touch, but Yoshiko ignores it, dragging her to a pair of bar stools and forcing her down. Riko obliges, but not without a surprised squeak. “We’ll be having two Mega Bowls of miso chicken ramen, please,” she shouts over the noise as she takes the next seat.

One of the chefs looks over and passes her a casual thumbs up, quickly scribbling her order down in a notebook. Riko stares at her with wide eyes. “You’re going to have _two_ Mega Bowls?”

“Nope,” Yoshiko says. She slides out a pair of disposable chopsticks, snapping them with an audible _crack_ and leaving them on the table. “One’s for you, obviously.”

Riko looks like a deer caught in headlights. She cringes, tentatively looking around the room. “I… I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish that, Yoshiko-chan,” she admits.

Yoshiko waves her off. “Nobody ever finishes it. It’s cheap and a winter special anyway, so don’t worry about it,” she says dismissively.

Riko looks down a little sullenly. “I don’t like leaving my food,” she mutters, but she does the same and pulls out a pair of chopsticks. Unlike Yoshiko, she leaves it together and instead prefers to slide a napkin underneath it. Yoshiko's mouth twitches up at the meticulousness of it.

“Do you come here often?” Riko asks suddenly. She eases off an empty glass and holds it under the still water tap. She passes it to Yoshiko.

Yoshiko reaches over gratefully, taking a small sip from it. She shivers as the chilled liquid travels down her throat. “Only during the winter,” she says.

Riko does her little nose huff again. “Please don’t tell me you only come here for the Mega Bowls,” she pleads as she pours herself a glass.

“I only come here for the Mega Bowls,” Yoshiko says promptly.

Riko groans and shuts her eyes. “Figures.”

The conversation dies for a moment. Yoshiko reaches for a napkin and begins folding one of the edges, crease after crease. Riko watches her with interest. “I take it you don’t come to places like this a lot, then?” she says at last.

Riko blinks at her. “What makes you think that?”

Yoshiko raises an eyebrow, unfurling her napkin. “It’s really hard to imagine someone like you sitting in a ramen bar, you know. Have you ever even _been_ to one?”

Riko somehow manages to look offended. “I--I’ve been in ramen bars before!” she protests, spluttering. She gestures to the water taps and says; “See -- I know how to use these!”

“Those are in like almost _every_ Japanese bar in this prefecture,” Yoshiko points out.

Riko huffs. “I _have_ been to ramen bars. I just don’t go a lot,” she says resolutely.

Yoshiko can feel her eyes crinkle at the corner. She smoothed out her napkin and flips it around. “Right,” she says a little dubiously. She can see Riko scowl from the corner of her eye. “What _do_ you eat a lot, then?”

Riko visibly brightens. It’s not obvious; she simply straightens her back a little and perches more on the chair, but Yoshiko notices. “I like to make my own food, actually.”

Yoshiko makes a face. _‘Is there anything this girl isn’t good at?’_ “Really?” she says nonetheless. “You can cook?”

“It’s fun,” Riko says with a soft curve of a smile. She tucks her hair behind her ears. “You can make whatever you like with cooking.”

Yoshiko hums, genuinely impressed. “My food never turns out right,” she admits, kicking her feet against the bar stool. “It’s usually burnt, or has too much tabasco sauce -- or too little, sometimes.” She frowns, remembering how Ruby once cried after she ate some of her curry. “I mean, it’s _okay_ in my opinion? But other people don’t like it for some reason.”

“‘For some reason,’” Riko repeats with a grimace. “If it’s burnt or has too much tabasco sauce, isn’t that a good enough reason to dislike your food?”

“Everyone’s food is too mild!” Yoshiko complains, meeting Riko’s eyes challengingly. “What do you all season your chicken with? _Lemons?”_

“That’s a better seasoning than tabasco sauce,” Riko retaliates. “Who does that?”

Yoshiko picks up her chopsticks, pointing them at Riko. “Me,” she proclaims grandly.

Riko opens her mouth to speak, but then the food arrives, two gigantic bowls of piping hot ramen clanked down directly in front of the both of them. Yoshiko licks her lips in anticipation. Riko stares down at her dish in horror.

“It’s… uh.” Riko trails off, wetting her lips before trying again. “It’s very big.”

Yoshiko picks up her chopsticks and begins scooping up the noodles. “It’s called a Mega Bowl for a reason,” she says through a mouthful of chicken. She slurps it up, then looks at Riko with wide eyes as she processes what exactly she’d just eaten. “Wait-- you’re not vegetarian or anything, are you?”

Riko looks like she’s torn between staring and bursting into laughter. She clears her throat. “It’s a little bit late to ask that, isn’t it?”

Yoshiko pauses, her chopsticks hovering over a bundle of noodles. She blanches. “Hold up, you’re not _really_ vegetarian, right?”

Riko separates her chopsticks and positions them over her bowl. “We were just talking about how to season chicken, right?” she says, her voice light with mild amusement as she pulls up some noodles. “So no, I’m not vegetarian.” She begins nibbling at her noodles.

Yoshiko settles back down in relief. “You could’ve just eaten around the chicken anyway,” she says.

Riko passes her an indignant look. “Hospitable, aren’t you?” A brief pause, then she asks, “Are you allowed to do that?”

Yoshiko chews her noodles pensively, clicking her chopsticks together. “Why not?” she guesses. She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “It’s convenient.”

Riko huffs and brings a hand to her mouth as she chews. Yoshiko wonders if it's possible to sigh all the oxygen out of her at the rate she’s going. “Convenience isn’t really the point of being vegetarian,” she explains, exasperated, and their conversation settles back into a warm silence, Riko nibbling delicately at her food while Yoshiko slurps it all up.

“Are you a professional musician?” Riko asks all of a sudden, turning her gaze to Yoshiko. Her words are careful, as if she's been pondering over them.

Yoshiko’s heart drops. “N-no,” she quickly denies. She ducks her head, her face turning a conspicuous shade of red. “But I’m in music school,” she finishes reluctantly.

If Riko has a reaction to that, she doesn’t let it show. She only turns back to her ramen and begins gathering it with her chopsticks. “That explains why you always have your violin with you,” she says simply.

“It’s a little pathetic, isn’t it?” She must have said that a little too aggressively, because Riko’s head snaps up, looking at her with wide eyes. Yoshiko takes that as her cue to continue. “What sort of music student can’t play in front of anyone?”

Riko purses her lips, examining Yoshiko’s face. “You not being able to perform in front of people at the moment doesn't make you a failure of a music student,” she says carefully. “We’re-- _you’re_ making steps to change that.”

Yoshiko shakes her head in frustration. “You haven't heard my music,”’ she snarls. “It’s awful. Nothing works and the worst thing is that it’s completely goddamn _expressionless.”_ Riko’s gaze doesn’t waver and Yoshiko sucks in a deep breath. “Maybe I should just quit,” Yoshiko says, softer, ducking her head.

“Don’t quit,” Riko says immediately, and the uncharacteristically sharp edge to her voice is the only thing that forces Yoshiko to look up. She reaches out, almost as if she wants to lay her hand against Yoshiko’s, but she withdraws it at the last minute. “Don’t quit,” she repeats.

“Why?” Yoshiko demands harshly, fingers curling against her palm.

This time, Riko reaches out. Her hand wraps around Yoshiko’s wrist. It’s cool to touch and it grounds Yoshiko a little, somehow. “There’s still room to try,” she says, and she looks Yoshiko in the eye. She keeps her gaze focused for a moment then flicks her eyes away hesitantly. Yoshiko thinks she’s about to withdraw her hand too, but her loose grip remains steady. “Maybe-- maybe I’m being pretentious,” Riko says carefully, “since I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I”--she sets her jaw--”I think there’s still hope.”

Yoshiko deflates and looks back down. She stares into the ramen, watching the reflection of the bar’s bright lights. “Yeah,” she eventually says. She doesn’t know how sincere her words are and if she even believes them, but Riko retracts her hand. Yoshiko can tell she's unsatisfied by her tense brow and minute frown, but she gives in -- just for today.

* * *

She spends the rest of the week hanging around Riko wherever possible. As much as she hates to admit it, Yoshiko doesn't have many friends at all, so the pianist’s presence and friendship is a welcome gift to her. Thankfully, Riko doesn't object; in fact, Yoshiko almost thinks she _enjoys_ her company from their back and forth interactions. She pushes that thought out of her mind as soon as it pops in, however, because someone as kind as Riko is sure to be sweet to practically everyone she meets.

(she keeps reminding herself that there's an unbreachable line of talent between the two but it becomes harder to keep that in mind every time she notices riko’s cheeks dimple whenever she smiles at her.)

It's during the weekend, when Yoshiko’s rolling around in a crumpled pair of stained, flannel pyjamas, that Ruby calls her on her cell phone. Yoshiko’s eyebrows shoot up when she reads the caller ID, because she genuinely can't remember the last time Ruby called anyone -- she’s always tried to text instead, if possible.

“Hello?” she asks, immediately picking up.

“Yoshiko-chan?” Ruby’s voice is quivering with nerves - she's never been good with phone calls -, but there isn't a sense of urgency in it.

Relaxing, Yoshiko sets the phone down on her bed and turns it on to the speaker. “Yeah, what's up?” She crumples up a crisp packet and lunges it at the bin. It misses the middle by a centimetre and hits the rim, bouncing off it and pathetically slowing to a stop on the floor. Yoshiko sighs under her breath and gingerly lifts herself off her stomach.

The line over the speaker is static, even when Yoshiko successfully chucks away the packet and clambers back into the bed. She bites her lip. “Ruby?” she prompts, more cautiously than before.

“A-ah, sorry!” is the muffled reply. “Actually I was wondering…” Ruby trails off for a moment, silently pondering over her words, before blurting out a hasty, “Is it okay if I come over? Today,” she adds meekly.

Yoshiko tilts her head, tugging her duvet cover closer around her. “Your parents again?” she questions, scowling as she rips open another crisp packet.

“Oh, no,” Ruby says and Yoshiko sags in relief. Ruby has never had a good relationship with her parents as far as she knew, and so by extension, Yoshiko automatically decided to dislike them too because, really -- it took a _lot_ for Ruby to not get along with someone.

“I just wanted to see you,” Ruby continues. Her voice squeaks on the last syllable and Yoshiko wonders just how truthful she's being before shrugging it off. She and Ruby have been friends for a while, now; if Ruby’s keeping something from her, Yoshiko trusts her enough to know that it's not something worth prying into.

“Of course!” she exclaims out loud, jumping into a smug voice. “There’s no way someone wouldn’t want to see me!”

There’s a momentary silence on the other end as Ruby tries to decipher her words. “Y-yeah,” she agrees eventually. “So is today alright?”

Yoshiko stuffs a crisp into her mouth. “Yup,” she says through noisy crunches. “Come over whenever.”

She hears Ruby sigh in relief. “Okay,” she acknowledges. An excited smile is audible in her voice. “See you later, Yoshiko-chan!”

* * *

“What...” Ruby asks, voice flat. “What is this.”

Yoshiko glances over to her. She’s standing rather limply, glaring at the sink with clenched fists. “Dirty dishes,” she supplies helpfully.

Ruby gives her an unamused look and Yoshiko flinches, her blood running cold. “I know that.” She narrows her eyes. “How long have they been in here?”

Yoshiko quickly bows her head like a puppy being scolded. “Three days,” she confesses in a quiet voice.

“Three days,” Ruby repeats in a hard voice -- well, as hard as Ruby’s voice can go anyway, but the fact that it’s _Ruby,_ usually a shy and meek girl, only makes it scarier.

Yoshiko falls to her knees, slamming her forehead into the floor and clapping her hands together. “I’m sorry!” she apologises. “If I knew you get so angry over dirty dishes I would’ve done it before you came!”

Ruby huffs from above her, shaking her head helplessly. “Geez, that’s not why you should clean it up... I’ll help you before I leave, then,” she concedes.

Yoshiko snaps her head up, eyes wide. _“Really?”_ she asks, because she was fully expecting Ruby to force her to her knees and scrub every part of the kitchen until it was sparkling clean from the way she was acting. _‘Well, it_ is _Ruby, I suppose…’_

“Yeah,” Ruby says, giving in with a wan smile.  

Yoshiko grins, springing to her feet. “Thanks, Ruby!” she cheers.

She claps the shorter girl’s shoulder and is eager to launch into an over-dramatic speech of gratitude when Ruby blurts out, “Can you play for me?”

Yoshiko blinks. Her mind backtracks, reeling from the sudden question. Her land loosens its grip on Ruby’s shoulder. “Huh?”

Ruby balls her fists in decisiveness and turns her head to determinedly glare at Yoshiko. “C-can you,”--she falters momentarily before pushing back through--”can you play me the violin?” She threads her fingers together, looking down at the floor.

“Eh,” Yoshiko stammers out dumbly.

“O-only if that’s okay with you!” Ruby hastily waves her hands and backs away a little. “You don’t have to play anything huge! I mean, you don’t have to play at all if you don’t want to; I-- I’m not trying to force you into it or anything--”

“Wait,” Yoshiko orders, quickly interrupting the other girl’s rambling. Ruby quietens down. “Why all of a sudden?” She frowns. “This isn’t like you.”

Ruby rubs her cheek nervously with a finger. “I thought maybe I could help you a bit,” she admits, “with your… your problem.”

Yoshiko looks at her and wonders if maybe, just maybe, Ruby has been worrying about her all this time. Her cheeks redden in embarrassment. She glances away just as Ruby looks up. “Why not?” she says gruffly and Ruby’s mouth drops open.

 _“Really?!”_ she asks, flabbergasted.

Yoshiko flushes even darker. “I-is it that surprising to you?” she demands accusatorily, crossing her arms and looking to the side. “I’ve played to you before, haven’t I?” _‘You won’t have any expectations,’_ she adds internally. Playing to Ruby will certainly be easier than playing to anyone else.

Ruby nods and smiles. “Yeah,” she says, beaming. “Thank you, Yoshiko-chan!”

Yoshiko studies her for a moment but as usual, there isn’t a trace of malice on her face. She sighs heavily, gesturing to the living room. “C’mon, then.”

* * *

As she had thought, playing her violin in front of Ruby isn’t particularly hard. She’s still self-conscious, of course, but it’s Ruby -- _Ruby._ Ruby who’s perched patiently on her chair, her straight spine barely touching the back with her knees pressed together and clenched hands resting atop of them. Ruby’s easier to read than a book, and so she feels more at ease while in her presence.

“How was it?” she asks beseechingly as she lowers her bow, chin still steady on the violin. The performance was just as always; it was still lacking that _something,_ but she didn’t know what. It sounded lifeless. as if it had no personality, and there’s a solution - Yoshiko _knows_ there is one - but she just can’t put her finger on it. It’s the tricky stage of being just within reach, and it irritates her to no end.

Ruby narrows her eyes, chin pinched between her fingers. “I… couldn’t notice any differences,” she admits and Yoshiko deflates with a groan, dropping down on the sofa opposite Ruby.

“Right,” she says with a sigh, resting the back of her head against the chair.

Ruby hangs her head. “Sorry,” she mumbles out, looking down at her knees. “I wasn’t much help after all.”

Yoshiko waves her off with her bow. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault..” She straightens and pulls her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on them. “What… what did it sound like, though?” she asks curiously, staring at Ruby with wide eyes. _‘Did it sound good?’_ she wants to ask, but she’s far too afraid of the answer.

Ruby brightens and claps her hands together lightly. “It sounded great!” she exclaims, leaning forward enthusiastically in her seat. “Anybody could tell you go to music school!”

Yoshiko huffs and hugs her knees tighter. “It doesn’t sound good to me,” she comments defeatedly. She shuts her eyes. “It sounds empty.”

Ruby leans back in her seat for the first time that day. She hums under her breath, contemplative. “Do your teachers know?”

“They just tell me to join their stupid orchestra,” Yoshiko growls.

Ruby smiles sympathetically. “Right, you don’t want to do that.” She tilts her head. “What about asking someone else who’s well versed in music?” she suggests. “Who isn’t one of your teachers, I mean.”

“There _is_ someone like that, actually,” Yoshiko tells her. “I’m…” She pauses, wondering if ‘acquaintances’ is too weak a word for her relationship with Riko. “I’m friends with her,” she finishes slowly. Ruby genuinely looks surprised. “Is it that weird for me to have friends?” she grumbles.

Ruby starts and flushes, hastily shaking her head. Her chair jiggles with her movements. “No!” she squeaks. “I’m just a little…”

“Surprised,” Yoshiko says with a wry smile.

Ruby slumps down, offering her a sheepish look. “Yeah,” she admits reluctantly. She crosses her ankles over. “But-- but can’t you just ask her for advice?”

Yoshiko exhales. Her breath tickles her kneecaps. “I’m too nervous to play in front of her. For the time being, anyway,” she adds.

Ruby looks at her inquisitively. “So you’re working on it?” she questions hopefully, lacing her fingers through together.

“We’re trying,” Yoshiko confesses. She picks at the thick material of her tights and blinks slowly. _“I’m_ trying.”

Ruby, if anything, seems to be satisfied by that answer. “That’s great,” she assures her with a supportive smile. “You’ll get there.”

Yoshiko’s gaze softens fondly and she smiles back at her. It’s only a small twitch of the lips but judging from the way Ruby’s beam widens, she’s noticed. “Yeah,” Yoshiko agrees, and this time she means it.

* * *

She goes to school on Monday to be greeted by blindingly yellow posters plastered all around the school. Once she’s managed to squint past their disgustingly garish colour choices (seriously, _who_ designed these god awful things?!), she realises that the posters are all propaganda for that horrendous orchestra the teachers are all egging her to join.

They may as well have put up a flashing, neon sign saying ‘Welcome to Hell!’ at the entrance for all Yoshiko cares.

“Tsushima-san!”

Yoshiko turns at her name. One of her teachers comes running up to her, heels clacking busily against the tiled floors. She’s just about to greet her when she notices the yellow poster in her hand.

Oh. Oh _no._

“Tsushima-san,” her teacher gasps out as she slows down to a stop. She wipes her forehead and holds out the poster, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “Why don’t you--”

Yoshiko almost slaps the paper out of her hand. “I’m _not_ joining,” she snarls through gritted teeth before spinning on her heels and striding away.

The teacher calls after her and, on a spurt of sympathy, Yoshiko almost turns around to apologise for her harshness. She remembers that the only reason they keep bugging her about it is because they know her music’s bad - and are probably all laughing behind her back, now that she thinks about it - and keeps walking.

* * *

She goes to Riko’s house almost every day, their daily schedule only ever being broken up by the odd appointment or busy evening from either side. It's surprising; aside from her skill at the piano, Riko is as normal as one can get, but Yoshiko never

finds herself getting bored in her presence. While Yoshiko is typically the one to initiate conversation, they never tire of topics to talk about.

Riko's one of the few people to indulge in Yoshiko's strange habits, too. Well, perhaps ‘indulge’ is too strong a word, because for Riko, that means throwing Yoshiko a weird look and a judging comment back. Her retorts are never too strong, though, and are usually along the lines of friendly chiding. (yoshiko’s honestly just relieved she has something to reply to, because _boy_ is it awkward when someone doesn't say anything back.)

“I know my way here already,” Yoshiko tells her one day as they walk to Riko’s apartment. Their feet move together in sync. “You don’t have to escort me every day. I’m not your child.”

“Oh really,” Riko quips doubtfully.

Yoshiko scowls, indignant. _“I’m not!”_ she denies, clenching her fists.

“Well, I like meeting you at the subway station,” Riko says simply and that shuts Yoshiko up.

They decide to go shopping the next weekend. Yoshiko hobbles into the shopping centre, shivering under the tight protection of a parka, thick scarf and a pair of earmuffs and uggs. Moving around in the attire is a pain, to say the least, but she's not risking getting the flu after being stuck with it for a _month_ last year.

She sees Riko before she can see her, and waddles over to her, calling out, “Hey!”

Riko jumps at her name and spins around. She's wearing a simple, beige coat underneath a faded tartan. She's also wondering a plaid skirt, and while it _is_ paired with tights, Yoshiko briefly wonders how she can step outside without her legs turning to popsicles.

“Yoshiko-chan,” Riko says, relaxing as she realises who it is. She smiles. “Good morning.” She raises an eyebrow at her attire but says nothing more.

“Don't laugh!” Yoshiko grumbles, crossing her arms. She means it to come across as defiant, but guessing from the way Riko's eyes crinkle with mirth at the edges, it looks anything but. “I-I get cold easily, okay?”

“Okay,” Riko agrees easily. “I think it's cute.”

Yoshiko splutters and turns red, turning around to hide her face with her mittened hands. “Stop,” she whines beseechingly. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don't.” Riko chuckles and tugs her sleeve gently. “Come on, let's get going.” She pauses, then asks, “Where do you want to go?”

Yoshiko straightens at that and unfolds her arms. “The occult shop?” she asks hopefully, because it’s been awhile since she's come to town, let alone visit the shop despite having frequented it when she was younger. Now that they're there, she may as well pay a visit.

Riko looks like she’s just suggested murder. Her jaw drops and her grip on Yoshiko slackens completely. “The _occult_ shop?” she hisses, horrified. She looks around as she says it, as if terrified someone will overhear.

“Yes!” Yoshiko swipes her bangs aside grandiosely. “They'll have all sorts of new stock in!” She shakes off Riko’s loose hold and instead latches onto her arm, pulling her through the shopping centre. “Let's go!” she exclaims loudly.

“A-ah, Yoshiko-chan?!” Riko squeaks in protest. A few people give them a strange glance, and Yoshiko swears she sees smoke coming out of Riko’s ears. She gives in nonetheless, and only opens her mouth to speak when they pull up in front of the occult shop.

She bends over, gasping for air. “I-I’m surprised you can run so fast in”--she points a shaky finger at Yoshiko's chubby coat--“that.” She wipes her forehead with her arm, straightening slightly.

Yoshiko huffs and pulls at her collar. “It's getting a little stuffy, true,” she says, and Riko gives her a pointed look but otherwise stays quiet. “So?” she asks, dramatically gesturing at the shop with both arms. “What do you think?”

Riko sizes it up with a displeased expression. “It’s… more normal than expected,” she says glumly.

Yoshiko raises an eyebrow at. With its bold, black and gold board; ominous looking pentagrams; and peeled, brown paint, even she’d say it's anything but normal. She almost asks _‘Just what were you expecting?’_ but, not wanting Riko to get cold feet, pulls her inside the shop instead.

The bell jangles as the door shuts and Riko flinches. “What do you want from here?” She surveys the interior, looking distressed. “Let’s just get it over with,” she mumbles, hunching her shoulders.

“Candles,” Yoshiko tells her as she eases her way through the shop, making sure to not knock over any of the jutting odds and ends.

“Why candles?” Riko demands. “You can get those from anywhere!” So she says, but she reluctantly follows through to its respective section nonetheless.

It’s when Yoshiko’s examining the price of a pale blue candle when Riko pipes up again with a, “I was thinking this morning.” She stops before tacking on an, “About your violin.”

Yoshiko’s hand stills. She doesn’t look up and instead places the candle back down on the rack. “Oh yeah?”

Riko stares down steadfastly at her feet. “I think playing with in a group might help,” she says.

Fresh betrayal washes over her followed by anger, and Yoshiko opens her mouth to deny it. Riko, noticing this, holds up a hand in an attempt to pacify Yoshiko into silence. “Hear me out,” she begs, “please?”

It’s enough to quieten Yoshiko down, and she takes this as her sign to carry on. “You need to separate your self-worth from your skill as a violinist,” she says seriously, “and you know that.” She pauses. “I think. But,” she continues, “can I ask you something?”

Yoshiko shrugs, absent-mindedly picking up a grey candle. Her attention is anywhere but focused on it. “Sure.”

“Have you asked anyone for… for”--she bites her lip, seemingly unsure at how to word her question--”help?”

“Yeah,” Yoshiko says with a sigh, turning the candle over in her hands. “I’ve asked Ru--” she wavers, “--a friend.” She looks up at Riko through her eyelashes. “It didn’t help.”

Riko nods understandingly, as if she already knew. “Can they play an instrument?”

“No,” Yoshiko admits. She quirks up an eyebrow, trying to figure out the other girl’s thought process. “Is that why you want me to play in an ensemble?” she asks.

Riko smiles sheepishly. “It’s part of it,” she confesses. “I think getting advice from violinists at your level would help more, since they can give more specific advice.” She chews the inside of her mouth and says, “But I think playing with others would be more fun in general, too.”

Yoshiko purses her lips at the word. “Fun,” she repeats.

“It’ll help you stop focusing so much on your own faults,” Riko says earnestly, lacing her hands together. “It gives more meaning to your music.”

Yoshiko looks at her, speechless. Riko meets her gaze and her face immediately falls, misunderstanding Yoshiko’s silence. She quickly backtracks. “Y-you don’t have to do it, of course! It was just a suggestion--”

“No,” Yoshiko interrupts before she can go on a nervous tirade. “It’s okay. Thanks,” she says sincerely.

Riko visibly relaxes. She reddens slightly, Yoshiko notes with interest. “Why _don’t_ you want to play in an ensemble?” Riko asks, curious.

“I don’t like to rely on other people,” Yoshiko says, “especially not for music.” Her grip on the silver candle tightens. “I don’t _need_ other people for my music.”

Riko gives her a searching look. It’s filled with something else, too -- something Yoshiko can’t quite put her finger on. “Playing with others isn’t a sign of weakness,” she says softly. “You contribute towards a greater piece of music together. Playing as a soloist and as a group is completely different.”

Yoshiko looks down and flips the silver candle over, showing it to Riko. “I’m going to buy this,” she says, hoping they won’t have to linger on the matter.

Riko, to her credit, thankfully drops the subject with a nod.

There’s a palpable layer of tension between the two, however, as they line up at the counter. Yoshiko shifts underneath it, uncomfortable, while Riko not-so-subtly looks around the rest of the store with a pained expression. Yoshiko watches her thoughtfully, wondering what the best way to break this newly formed barrier between them would be.

“Satan?” she asks suddenly.

Riko flinches, almost knocking down a pile of herbal curse books in the process. “Huh?” She squints down at the smaller girl.

“Looking for a ‘Hail Satan’ banner?” Yoshiko teases with a smirk.

It’s the furthest thing from humour and they’re both more than aware of that, but it’s also the most ‘Yoshiko’ thing she could have said. Riko’s stiff posture slackens, and then she’s smiling.

“You’re not funny,” she says, partnered with her trademark nose huff, "or threatening." 

Yoshiko smiles too, flushing a little, and she wraps her scarf closer around her neck. “I know.”

* * *

Yoshiko goes to school and takes one of the yellow flyers. They're a little less grating on her eyes. She folds it carefully until it’s a small, crisp square, and slots it into her bag, before scurrying away to the practice room.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was /meant/ to be a fluffy, 5k oneshot, but it just got longer and longer and turned into... this. It just got too long for me to handle, so I'm breaking it up -- there'll be one more chapter published after this one. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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